


Fever

by inertial



Category: B.A.P
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 06:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13584531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inertial/pseuds/inertial
Summary: Down with a fever, Daehyun writes about Youngjae.





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Contains mentions of self-harm.

 

[Fever](http://youtu.be/_IB4eWBqVyk)

 

I'm feeling warmer as time goes by. The fever still hasn't subsided; in fact, it's getting worse as I write this, but there's nothing else to occupy me at the moment since Youngjae is out buying panadol.

I have a feeling he'll flare up once he gets home. That's how Youngjae is, what he usually does. He'll probably be rather rough in feeding me the pills, snapping at me for not taking care of myself and falling sick, but he'll apologise softly after a moment and be gentle as he really is on the inside. People won't understand who in the right mind would get angry at a sick man. But Youngjae is different. He expresses everything through anger. That's why he's always irritated.

It's a habit of his, or rather, an innate part of him. He expresses every emotion through rage, be it happiness, sadness, excitement, worry, fear, etc. Trust me, he's not actually like that. It's a mask, a facade, see. If you take the time to peel his protective layers one by one, you'll see it's a little, vulnerable boy who is ensconced within.

I know. Whenever something upsets Youngjae and he vents it out on me by yelling, I pacify him with a kiss. I coax him to let me in by physically undressing him, to the point where I am inside of him, and his heels are digging into the mattress and his hands are fisting the sheets. We will release and that is when he covers his face and sobs.

During these moments where Youngjae is most vulnerable, fully naked for me to ogle and caress, it is then—despite his many scars and blemishes and how he self-deprecates secretly (his refusal to try on any shirts despite them being clearly twice his size, his avoidance of mirrors, him taking the long way instead of shortcuts people squeeze through)—that he verifies I do truly love him. When he has revealed all of the body he covers up so often, and he sees I do not shun away but instead kiss his superficially closed wounds, he lets me in through smothered cries and trembling lips bitten bloody.

I will then gently remove his hands from his face, his last piece of armour, and he will resist until I kiss him again. He will finally allow me to cradle him and believe the promises of eternal protection I have sworn many times to him.

Youngjae's hands are his biggest giveaway. It is not his eyes, which have hardened over his childhood, nor his face, for he has mastered stoicism. It is his hands. I first found out in high school when I sat opposite him during our exams and the teacher stopped by his desk to collect his script. He had been fumbling, trying to sort his papers, dropping them repeatedly and stapling them clumsily (and having to redo, redo, redo), and he had held up the line of students waiting for their turn.

I was bewildered by how long he took, wondering if he was a klutz, till I glanced over and saw the scowl scrawled antagonistically onto his baby face.

Youngjae looked so unapproachable and cold at that time, but when I focused on what he was doing, I saw it. His hands were shaking. They quivered to a point it was a wonder he could hold anything up, fingers in spasm as they struggled to hold paper.

When we were dismissed from the examination hall, I curiously followed Youngjae to the toilet, wanting to ask if he was okay. He stormed into the bathroom, gripping at the sink as he heaved, and his every footstep smouldered the pressure sitting on him into the concrete. I had placed a hand on his shoulder and he had snapped his head towards me, annoyed.

"What?" I still remembered how he had snarled, lips (pretty upon closer inspection) scrunched up. I had been taken aback by his glower and I said, "Don't be so stressed. It's just a test."

The condescending look of incredulity that had sunk into his face made me shrink back. _"Just?"_ Youngjae repeated mockingly, eyes wide and scoffing in amusement over the stupid. " _Just_ a test? Don't talk shit, whoever you are. To someone like you, obviously it's _just_ a test. Leave me alone."

I grasped him harder, incensed at how rude he was. "What's wrong with you? I'm just trying to be nice." I had bitten back. "You act like this one exam is going to break you for life."

"Maybe it is," Youngjae had spat challengingly, cocking his head one side. "Whether it is or not, it's not your fucking business." He had ripped my arm off him and I had grabbed his hand in retaliation, his baggy jacket sleeve falling to his elbow. It was then I caught a glimpse of the very thing that never let me leave Youngjae alone ever again.

Scars. They were brutally carved into his pale skin and it was easy to tell there wasn't just one perpetrator. The lines running down his forearm were of different intensities, those at his wrist thinner and sharper, stringent lines clumped with blood. The others near his elbow were fat and more spread in colour, sore, tender skin surrounding them—cane marks. One type screamed self-harm, the other castigated fierce expectations Youngjae had consecutively failed to meet.

Youngjae's hand was still shaking. He tore his arm from my grasp and half shrieked, brushing past me roughly and breaking out into a run. I had been too stunned to chase after a boy I had barely known then, but it's safe to say he became my only thought for the rest of my night.

Yoo Youngjae wore uniforms two sizes bigger than they should be. He maintained strictly straight posture and his lips were eternally folded, leaving no inkling of a smile to ever appear on his cheeks. He always wore a jacket, draped over him and sleeves covering all the way up to his fingers, despite days where the weather burned so scorching I joked with my classmates I'd take off my shirt.

Another thing I had learnt was that no one liked Yoo Youngjae. There were many names for him, bitch, pansy, asshole, but they all rooted from Youngjae's ever-present ill temper. He did not have friends because no one could stand how sarcastic and demeaning he was, and the way he yelled whenever someone committed a minor error had people actively evading him. I memorised the rumours suffocating Youngjae, in spite of how he held his head high like he would never drown underwater.

Youngjae came from a prosperous, reputable family, therefore the common adage for him being "spoilt brat". He always acted perfect like he could never err and there was a time in middle school where he was, quote, "disgustingly obese". When I brought up the fact that Youngjae may be struggling with his own issues, everyone cackled and said the only problem Youngjae had to deal with was how cocky he was. No one seemed to know about the scars bleeding blue and black down his limbs except for me.

I could not let the matter go. I tailed Youngjae even though he vigorously avoided me, attempting to befriend him even though all I ever got was malevolent insults and malicious growls. Schoolmates thought I had gone mad but I never, even to this day, forgot about the blood Youngjae leaked from the numerous slits in his flesh.

As time progressed, Youngjae eventually reduced the resistance and I held the generally unwanted honour of being Yoo Youngjae's only friend. To understand Youngjae, one has to scrutinise him extremely thoroughly, because it is in the small, easily unnoticeable acts where you can discern who he is.

Youngjae's front made him out to be an arrogant, too-good-for-you person. Yet, if one were to look closely, you would realise Youngjae took excessive toilet breaks and came out with a mint between his harshly sealed lips (vomit a faint trail). You would notice he constantly changed the topic whenever asked about himself, and would get angry if pressed on these personal matters. You would find his homework frequently with occasional words smudge, small drops of what seemed to be water blotting the paper.

I had tried, for a long, long time, to get Youngjae to open up. It was, needless to say, extremely difficult. He kept himself guarded so conscientiously he would get mad even if I asked about small things like what his favourite food was. Youngjae feared more so than the average person; he was deliriously afraid of being hurt and every piece of information he divulged about himself he perceived as the receiver gaining leverage over him. And somehow, along the way of trying to piece Youngjae together patiently with the minuscule scraps of smithereens he left behind, I fell in love with him.

Yet, undeniably, it was frustrating. It was vexing, it was strenuous, it was consuming. I tried to tear Youngjae's walls down, and inevitably, I tore myself down in the process. It was one day when I broke down. When the person you love avoids you like the plague out of the blue, with no explanation whatsoever, it's natural to come up with your own conclusions. I figured Youngjae had gotten tired of me, who tailed him to no end and was always deemed a nuisance. He had finally reached his limit. And these malignant thoughts manifested till the hurt was too strong to deny.

I had barely managed to force Youngjae over to my home, where we perpetually spent our time at since Youngjae was adamant on not giving out his address (I found out anyway, for emergency purposes). We had sat on the sofa as I flicked on the television, talking casually to him like how I usually would. He replied monotonously, more antagonistic and curt than ever, and after a short while, announced he was bored and he was leaving. I had switched off the television and slammed the remote control onto the coffee table, letting out anguished yell.

"What the hell is your problem?" Youngjae had incredulously asked me, narrowing his eyes.

" _You,_ " I had raised my voice, " _you_ are my fucking problem, Youngjae." He was the problem I so direly wanted to fix yet he never gave me any chance to solve his enigmas.

"Me?" Youngjae had scoffed, turning away. "You need mental help, Daehyun. What the hell have I done?" He stood up and stretched, walking towards the door.

"What the hell have you done?" I snarled in repeat, getting up and roughly gripping his shoulders. I spun him around and effectively stopped him from leaving, though a glower had bloomed on his face. "Ask yourself that, Youngjae, god-"

I had growled out in pure exasperation, growing more furious at Youngjae's indifferent expression. "Why the fuck are you avoiding me?"

His eyes visibly flickered. Over the months I had known him, I had long practised looking out for the signs that gave the supposedly unbreakable Youngjae away.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I'm not," Youngjae answered nonchalantly, wanting to take a step back but my iron grip not letting him to. "It's fucking boring here. I'm going back home."

"Then let me go with you."

"No," Youngjae instantly hissed. I gritted my teeth, grabbing him harder.

"Why?" I rebounded. Youngjae clasped my wrist, trying to release himself.

"Why do you need to know? You just can't," Youngjae snapped. "You're so fucking annoying. Leave me alone."

It was at this moment, I believe, looking into his large eyes obscured just the slightest by his hair, his brows perpetually curled into a frown, and his vermillion, chapped lips, that I teared up.

"Why?" I had seethed, wet warmth scratching down my cheeks as Youngjae momentarily gaped at me. "Why the fuck are you so secretive? Why can't you just fucking let me get to know you, Youngjae? Do you know how tiring it is? Everyday, I try and I try, and up till now, I still know fucking _nothing_ about you. God... You're tired of me. You are, aren't you?"

The infuriation, the fatigue, the dismal helplessness, the hopeless efforts, all came spilling out through hot tears. I had let my grip slip as Youngjae stepped back, startled. He retreated further as I balled my hands into fists, gruffly wiping my tears with my forearm.

"I need to go," Youngjae had blurted, stepping back another two steps. By then I couldn't care if he migrated to the next continent, I had decided then to give up on Youngjae. This was going nowhere, and I thought I clearly meant nothing to him.

Youngjae had glanced around for the keys which were in my pocket, and he knew he had no escape. After a prolonged moment, my choked, irate sobs cementing the futility between us, Youngjae had approached. His steps were gradual, slow and hesitant, and he had put forth and retracted his hands several times. Finally, he brought his soft palms out to my face and gently wiped away my tears.

I was stunned. Looking up, that face Youngjae gave bordered on despondency, and I had never seen him look so delicate and affectionate in my life. I shoved Youngjae down onto the couch and pressed my lips against his. His hands pushed me away then pulled me closer, then they stopped as if he was drenched in a dilemma—something that rarely happened with someone steadfast and straightforward like him.

I pressed him down deeper into the couch and weaved a hand through his hair, his fingers remaining twined around my collar. When I had to gasp for breath, I tore away to see a sight I never thought I would behold.

Youngjae was crying. It was the first time I saw not anger in his eyes but such profound forlorness it felt all imaginary. This, this was the side of Youngjae I had been chasing after for so long, desperate to meet and care for.

"S-Stop," Youngjae had stammered, his hands letting go of me as he stared up at me pleadingly. Everything came crumbling down into self-hate, guilt and absolute remorse as Youngjae whimpered below me. "Don't use me. I don't- you can't take advantage of me."

"Youngjae," I had breathed, my hands clutching on both sides beside his head, "I... I love you."

He cupped his ears like a child refusing to listen, vehemently chanting, "No, no, no. No one loves me. Stop lying."

"Youngjae," I begged, gazing down at his tear-streaked face. His eyes bore so much fear I was frightened myself I would only break him further. "God, _please_ , I love you, believe me."

"Stop it, Daehyun," Youngjae quivered, attempting to slip out of my hold. "No one loves me. Stop fucking with me! What the fuck do you want from me? You expect me to believe you don't have any motives for getting closer to _me_? I'm fucking irritating, I'm a bitch, I'm goddamn ugly, I'm fat, I'm-"

Youngjae strangled back a wail, covering his face desperately as he cried harder. "I don't want to like you," he blurted out. "You're going to fucking prove me right because I'm just a goddamn asshole everyone hates. Just stop it, please. Don't come near me. I don't want..."

To see Youngjae this vulnerable, crumbling within my grasp like stardust and moonlight on dead nights, made me lean down and kiss him on the forehead as gently as possible.

"I do love you, Youngjae," I whispered, showering Youngjae's face with kisses. "You're beautiful. I'll take care of you. I promise." 

He continued to churn out denials. I swore I would every time he stuttered out a "no" and determinedly accused me of hurting him in the future. If it was not now, it would be sooner or later.

I kept my promise. Every time I wanted to flare up at Youngjae for his snarky mouth and mean words, the fearful reclining of his hands stopped me. On some days, it felt like Youngjae was testing me, wanting to prove he would never be good enough for anyone.

Youngjae's hands are always my guide and reminder. It's the soft grasp of my shirt, the shy interlocking of our fingers, his palms clutching my neck as we kiss, that breathes out why I'd been so patient with him.

 

\--

 

"What the hell are you doing?"

I glimpse over at Youngjae as he enters our bedroom, eyes narrowing into slits. "Writing? Why are you writing when you're sick, idiot? You're supposed to rest."

"I was thinking of you," I confess. Youngjae rolls his eyes, lashes batting against his eye circles as he turns away. He digs into the plastic bag and chucks the medicine out at me.

"Here. I scheduled a doctor's appointment for you this afternoon," Youngjae mutters as he pulls out a strip. "Got you a fever pack too."

It's natural to melt into a smile, seeing how disgruntled Youngjae is. He glares down at me, tossing the items onto my chest. "I told you not to eat so much junk food. Seriously, why won't you listen to me?"

Youngjae stalks off, leaving me to pop a pill. He returns with a cup of water and thrusts it towards me. Water spills out and seeps into my shirt. I hiss at the sudden coldness, starkly pricking the engulfing heat around my skin.

"Shit," Youngjae mumbles hastily, dabbing the wet spot with his sleeve. "Sorry," he whispers, delicately bringing the cup to my lips. I watch him as he feeds me, his eyes darting to me for a second before veering away.

I shift inside, gesturing for Youngjae to sit by my side. He hesitantly acquiesces, lying down as I pull him against my chest. He keeps his gaze lowered and I lift his chin, making him meet my eyes.

"I really want to kiss you right now," I wheeze, coming out as a cross between a pant and a croak. "But I don't want to pass on the virus." My head throbs in agony and heat permeates my veins arduously, but the world seems a bit more lucid with Youngjae in my grasp.

Youngjae answers my doubt by craning his neck, placing a hand tenderly over my cheek and pressing his lips to mine. I wind my arm around his waist, apologetically stroking his lower back as I give in to temptation.


End file.
